


Kiss

by sonderings (lacunaletters)



Series: Haikyuu!! Moments of Intimacy [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Aobajousai, Fluff, Fukuroudani, Implied Sexual Content, Karasuno, Nekoma, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25929148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacunaletters/pseuds/sonderings
Summary: Kiss: an expression of many thingsSome chapters will have implied and/or sexual content in different parts of the series (I'll note them in the notes of the chapter and/or chapter title).(The Moments of Intimacy series is a bunch of drabbles with a specific theme relating to "intimate moments." Basically this is an exploration of the characters as well as an exercise in writing with a range of different scenarios.)
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Reader, Bokuto Koutarou/Reader, Hanamaki Takahiro/Reader, Iwaizumi Hajime/Reader, Kageyama Tobio/Reader, Kozume Kenma/Reader, Kuroo Tetsurou/Reader, Matsukawa Issei/Reader, Oikawa Tooru/Reader, Tsukishima Kei/Reader, Yaku Morisuke/Reader, Yamaguchi Tadashi/Reader
Series: Haikyuu!! Moments of Intimacy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1881790
Comments: 58
Kudos: 481





	1. Tsukishima Kei - Spur of the moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm so sorry I feel like everyone is getting excited about the implied sexual content & sexual content tags but the first couple of these ones are definitely more on the fluffy side aksdkfahdfsklsad.

“Keeeiiii, please?”

Tsukishima scowls at your puppy dog eyes.

He then scowls at himself for how it’s his not so secret weakness.

But he looks at you and ponders a little, digging a little deeper into his thoughts. 

He finds an unexpected curiosity. 

“Fine,” he relents. 

He usually gets a kick out of not giving you what you want right away, but an exception can be made from time to time. Life is about variety, is it not?

The after-school sun shines light through the windows of your homeroom classroom, softly painting shadows against your face from your hair and your eyelashes. _It’s very pretty_ , Tsukishima thinks to himself, as he leans forward from his seat, the desk in front of him separating you both. Or, perhaps it’s pretty because it’s _you_. 

Your fingertips are warm as they brush against the temples of his forehead, and he watches you, tracking the focus in your gaze and the way your mouth is scrunched up with excitement before everything fuzzes out.

He rubs his eyes and leans back into his chair, swooping his leg forward to kick against the desk in front of him where you’re sitting. 

“Well?” he asks you.

You jolt with a little laugh and a _hey!_ , taking a second to adjust to your surroundings. 

“I mean… it’s what I expected.”

“Which is?”

“Your eyesight isn’t good.”

He agrees. “It isn’t good.”

You adjust the frames on your face. They feel clunky as you move them up and down, watching as Tsukishima goes from a Tskushima to a Tsukishima-blur, back to a Tsukishima.

“Like, it’s _awful_.”

“Terrible.”

You move the glasses down until they’re resting on the bridge of your nose, so that the view in front of you is clear. You rarely see your boyfriend without his pair of specs, and something about glasses-less Tsukishima is just so… nice? Different? Specific features of his face pop out more such as his eyes?

He tilts his head to the side, eyebrow quizzically quirking up at you, and _oh_ . The something about glasses-less Tsukishima is how _at ease_ he looks—all casual and relaxed like how you’d feel in the comfort of your home. Defenses down. Safe and sound.

Half a year ago, you would have never imagined that you and him would have ended up like this. Together. Happy. Both young, and almost in love. Neither of you have said it yet, but it's not like it's a race to get there. _I_ _love you_ isn’t a finish line to cross.

So far with Tsukishima, being almost in love is like a walk where you sit on the benches along the way to enjoy the view, and stop to smell the flowers (realistically, it’d be more like stopping to pick the grass to throw it on the other person, but ah yes, the flowers are also nice).

“What is it?” Tsukishima asks.

“Juuust checking you out,” you smirk, emphasizing looking him up and down. You add a wink for some flirty good measure. 

Tskushima’s slight expression of boredom turns into a slight expression of bashfulness, and he rubs the back of his now pink-flushed neck. Two seconds are spent staring at you before he gently intertwines your fingers with his, tugging your hand to him.

“What?”

He kisses you. Sweetly and softly. You expect it to be short and small— a simple peck.

Until his fingers trace along your jaw and the smooth wetness of his tongue slips against your own, drawing out a gasp of surprise from within you. He grins against your lips, and you can feel the slyness of his smile pressing as closely as possible to you. 

There's the taste of the faintest bit of mint—the heat of his mouth—the shivers tingling your spine, and it’s like he’s sucking the air from your lungs and willing you to breathe all at the same time. He nips at your bottom lip before pulling away with a quiet bop of his forehead on yours. 

Red, hot heat rushes up to your cheeks. You see him hide his chuckle behind his hand as he retrieves his glasses from your face. 

Tsukishima lets the back of his finger greet your cheek with a gentle caress, as if admiring your blush, before leaving with a playful poke.

“You look silly,” he drawls, putting his glasses back on and reaching for his school bag on the ground.

You start to untangle your legs from your sitting position. Your foot is half-asleep. “E-excuse me?” you sputter.

“That look on your face.” 

“What?-” 

Tsukishima picks up your bag as well, slinging it across his shoulder. “They look good on you.” 

“Kei?”

“The glasses.”

“Really.”

He grabs your hand. “They’re big on you.” 

You squeeze his hand, taking the lead as you both make your way out the door. “I can’t see anything with them.” 

“Of course not, babe.” He squeezes yours back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: [@aoba-j](https://aoba-j.tumblr.com)


	2. Yamaguchi Tadashi - Bunny kiss

A shift. A shaky sigh. A dip in the bed. You wake up. 

“You okay?” you hush.

You roll over, rubbing your eyes, still half-asleep and bleary. Any trace of a dream is already forgotten and shelved in your subconscious. Unfortunately, Yamaguchi is not in the same boat.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, tossing an arm across your figure, snuggling his face into your neck and tangling his legs with yours. His heart presses against your chest. 

“Just nightmares.”

You bring your hands to his hair, lazily combing through any fine tangles, and he hums in response. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He stretches with a low groan, and the blankets shuffle softly. Yamaguchi plops his head back on his pillow. In the darkness, you can just see that from the outline of his silhouette, he’s face to face with you.

“I was by myself,” he starts, voice still weighed with sleep and a bad dream. “Well—no, I was surrounded by people. And they didn’t have faces. They kept coming closer and closer to me, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t move my feet, or my hands, or any part of my body.”

“Oh no,” you breathe in with worry. 

“Yeah,” Yamaguchi exhales. “No one was hurting me or anything, but I just had that feeling in my gut that I was in danger and that this wasn’t supposed to be happening. Then, the next thing I know, I’m pulled into the floor or something. I was falling and screaming and just about to hit the ground.”

Yamaguchi shifts closer to you until your foreheads are nearly touching. “Then, I woke up.” You can feel the warmth of his breath on your face. 

“And here we are,” he concludes.

“Here we are,” you repeat, nudging your nose to his.

You feel him wrinkle his nose in response to the ticklish sensation, but he doesn’t pull away, only bumping yours back lightly. 

“I could’ve gone like— _splat_.”

You nudge once more. “ _Sploot_.”

“Mhm.”

This time, you nuzzle his nose from side to side, feeling silly. “ _Sploot-sploot_.”

Yamaguchi giggles and the mellow vibrations just above your mouth turn into a gentle exhale. The breathing between you two slows, and the quiet lull in the room becomes still. 

“If I fell,” Yamaguchi mumbles, at the cusp of nodding off. “Would you fall with me?”

“If you fall,” you respond slowly, drifting off as well. “I hope I’ll be standing next to you, so I could catch you.”

“Thank goodness,” he hums, contented, muttering just under his breath. “I have you by my side.” 

He means it. 

You both fall asleep. Smiles on your faces, and safe in each others’ arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: [@aoba-j](https://aoba-j.tumblr.com)


	3. Kageyama Tobio - First

Kageyama might just turn into a statue.

He feels it in the way his muscles are frozen, glued to his bones, suspended in this sort of time-freeze in a world where only you and him exist.

_Perfect_ is not a word to be used lightly, especially by someone like Kageyama. But after spending a day—a _date_ with you, _perfect_ is truly the only word that can be used to describe it.

For a _first_ date on top of that, everything was flawless and faultless in a way that seemed almost like fate. You both showed up fifteen minutes early, animals seem to dislike both of you (you both don’t know why), your banter is like professional ping-pong, and the moment he reached out his hand to hold yours, he wished he could just hold your hand for forever.

Being with you is effortless and freeing. It was like all of the cheesy, romantic metaphors like jigsaw puzzles fitting together seamlessly, or being the _u_ and _i_ side by side on a keyboard suddenly made sense now, and maybe that’s what makes it even scarier. Maybe he’s getting ahead of himself too soon. 

He doesn’t want to mess this up.

So here he is—stuck in time, feeling his heartbeat run away from him, and worrying his little brain out of his head that he’s going to kiss you and it’s going to be awful and you’re going to hate him.

It’s dramatic, and it probably won’t happen, but there’s the little voice in the back of his head that tells him this is all too good to be true. Somewhere, there’s a shoe waiting to drop.

But, oh. How he _wants_ to _kiss_ you. 

The glow of cool fluorescent lights from your front door hovers above you, and you look like an angel. He kind of wants to ask you if you fell from heaven, but more importantly, if you plan on staying on earth. 

“Tobio-kun?”

His stiff shoulders snap up. “Y-yes!”

You take a small step towards him. “Thank you for today,” you grin. “I had an amazing time.”

Like a magnet, he can’t help but draw closer to you, and he hopes he does a casual job of wiping his clammy hands on his pants. “Would you, um-” (his hands are sweatier than he thought, much to his dismay.) 

“Would you like to do this again some other time?”

You nod and you grin even more, tilting forward. He’s not imagining it. Your face is definitely approaching his. “Maybe sometime next week? If you’re free?”

Kageyama is certain this is leading to a kiss. He swallows and gives his furiously beating heart a pep talk to say _1\. You've got this Tobio_ and _2\. C_ _alm the fuck down_.

He licks his lips. “Yes. Yes, please. I would love that.”

The last thing Kageyma feels is your hands circling his neck before he glances at your mouth and closes the shrinking space between you two. He shuts his eyes and leans in. 

Just too _quickly_.

The next thing Kageyama feels isn’t the softness of your mouth, but the bones of his teeth clacking against yours. He yanks himself from you as soon as the contact is made.

Oh no, no, no.

It was definitely hard enough to shatter any mood or moment. There are so many thoughts that go through his mind, but his concern for you comes before his shame.

“Are you okay?” he frets, moving before he can even think properly about his actions. His hands migrate all over to check your cheeks, your jaw, your neck and your shoulders (because maybe somehow, bumping your teeth will hurt your shoulders). He looks you up and down in a fluster—to reassure himself that every bit of you is undamaged. It’s not enough. He’s unsure. He double checks again.

One hand is on your shoulder, the other holds your face. “I’m so sorry,” he says, voice low and cracking. His jaw clenches with guilt. “I’m so, _so_ , sorr-”

You cut him off as gently as you can, pressing your mouth against his again. 

Kageyama freezes in shock, processing the duality that oh—you’re probably okay and unhurt, and _oh_ —you’re _kissing_ him right now. You’re kissing him and your lips are so, so soft and warm. He can’t help but let a moan melt into your mouth as firecrackers flicker in his stomach. _T_ _his_ —your lips locking with his, is beyond anything he could’ve asked for.

Afterwards, you touch your lips coyly with your fingers, face slightly flushed, eyes sparkling up at him. Kageyama is at a loss for words, but maybe there’s nothing more that needs to be said—the expression you have is suffice. Internally, he takes a picture with his memory to keep this image of you framed in his mind.

You slowly step back. Your gaze lingers on the slack-jawed, but glowing look on his face for as long as possible as you make your way to the door, unlocking it with a jangle of your key and a twist of the knob. You glance once more at Kageyama.

“We can work on that some more next time, don’t you think?” you ask. It’s less of a question and more of a suggestion. Kageyama swears he feels Cupid shoot a piercing bullseye right into his chest, straight into his heart.

And you know what, he doesn't mind at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: [@aoba-j](https://aoba-j.tumblr.com)


	4. Oikawa Tooru - A mere move

If right now were a movie, _Pause_ had just been pressed, the hand behind the finger choosing to do so on purpose. 

Perhaps it’s a defense mechanism— _click,_ like a magic trick to stop time right at the moment before the turning point of the story where there is no going back. 

Except through a rewind button. Another _click_. It takes you to the past, and the previous scene replays.

_Ten seconds before:_

Walking home together. The usual. This walk home’s conversation starts with you bringing Oikawa up to speed—giving him the inside dirty deets about you and Matsukawa getting caught red-handed passing notes in homeroom and disclosing what was written in the private piece of paper that Yui-sensei read, resulting in her directing a strangely amused and knowing look at Oikawa.

(We were talking about how it had to be you who was secretly farting and stinking up the room. 

What?! NO! _No_ —it wasn’t me!

It came from _your_ direction!!!)

_Five seconds before:_

Oikawa almost backbridging, the back of his hand ferociously slapping against his forehead, swearing on his innocence. His pretend fainting is fake-acting believable, lamenting that he never thought he would be the farting suspect, but also confessing to having eaten more cheese than usual at lunch— _That doesn’t mean it was ME!_ You rolling your eyes with a smile on your face and laughter bubbling from your throat, pulling at his arm to bring him back up. Him turning towards you and—

_Pause_

His mouth and yours meeting. 

You and him kissing. 

Lip-locked and unmoving—fight, flight, _freeze_ response, maybe?

_Play_ —a movement, a breath against your cheek, you see yourself reflected in Oikawa’s widened eyes—

**_STOP_ **

_Soft_ because you both use chapstick, the same kind actually— _Nivea™ Milk & Honey Lip Care_. As soon as Oikawa asked to borrow yours, he kept on asking to use it, and at some point, he was definitely using it more than you. One day, you stuffed a little gift bag in his locker with an unopened package and a little note saying _"You better lend me some too >:(” _

_Good_ because well… of course Oikawa is a good kisser. Of course he is. What was he not good at? Growing up beside him, you’ve been witness to all of his goodness, and you always thought he’d be good at kissing in all the seven different times you had thought about Oikawa + kissing together— ** _not_** _you_ and _him_ kissing though. Nope! 

Never.

Maybe.

(Only twice)

And surprise, surprise, even when _this_ is something like a surprise, it’s still something _good_ , and—

_Wrong_.

A slip-up. An accident. Because it wasn’t meant to be.

So this is what you deduce in 0.01 seconds of this freeze-frame moment. Right now, you are kissing Oikawa, and his lips are _soft_ , and it’s _good_ , and it’s _wrong_. 

Your grip tightens around your mental, imagined plastic remote, thumb digging into the small rubber bit, not ready to let go and go on just yet.

Unexpectedly, Oikawa is the one that does. 

He goes on. He goes on with a fumble. He goes on beyond going on. His buried personal pandora box opens up. What he was supposed to keep dead and shackled deep down inside his chest is unlatching itself from the locks, wriggling its way out.

There is freedom in releasing, in admitting the truth, no matter how daunting the truth may be, and there is safety in keeping, in guarding the secrets, no matter how much the secrets want to scream. The switch flips on _Fast Forward_ , and Oikawa sees it all happening before him as his secret truth crawls out of its casket, alive and kicking—introducing itself to him. 

It is him taking your face into his palms to move his lips against yours in a way that would redefine _this_ —kissing you, to be intentional—a conscious choice now done on purpose.

And maybe you’d reciprocate. Maybe you’d kiss him back. Then, he would lick into your mouth, tongue finally getting the chance to taste you— teeth teasing a bite that lingers on your lip—breath hot and mingling with yours, finally meeting. He’d kiss you until you were shaking — gasping — blushing — a _mess_ , all because of him. 

And when you both break away, you’d be breathless and beautiful, and maybe you’d ask him why, or maybe you’d say what, or maybe you’d be speechless.

And he’d tell you. The creature in his chest wants you to know its name too, and Oikawa would tell you. 

He’d tell you he—

_Click_. _Off_. The TV screen becomes blank. A cable gets unplugged.

Because this is not actually a movie. There isn’t really a remote. There isn’t really a TV. You do not get to rewind, you do not get to fast forward, and you do not get to stop. 

One of you pulls back first. 

Oikawa’s expression is blank and a little stunned. He feels like he just came down with a fever. 

Your heart either drops and stops, or picks itself up to prepare for a race. You can’t tell. 

-

You take it upon yourself to shatter the already too long silence with a soft laugh.

You try your best, you really do—to keep eye contact, to not look away. But sometimes, trying your best isn’t enough, and this is one of those times. You point your attempt at snapping the string of tension down at your feet. Your attempt is a joke. 

_Well, since we’ve already taken baths together when we were kids...this is nothing, right?_

Ha. Who were you kidding? You’re the joke. 

You hit the _nothing_ hard, like that was supposed to be the punchline. You wish you had just said nothing. It would’ve been better if you let the silence sit to join yours and Oikawa’s intensely awkward company. 

Now, it’s too late for any take-backs. You’ve already said your silly sentence, and it feels like you’re lying. You wonder if Oikawa will see through it. You wonder what Oikawa will answer. You wonder if you’re expecting something.

This is nothing, right?

You miss the way his jaw tenses before you carefully look back at him. _Nothing_ is something Oikawa can do, but does he want to? He doesn't know. He wishes he did. 

So, he doesn’t give you an answer right now. Instead, he warns you with a smile and a sentence structured like a song.

_Be careful,_ he hums. _If the school finds out that you’ve seen eveeerryy bit of me, lots of people are going to be very jealous of you._

You shrug and scoff. _There’s not much to see._

_If you actually knew, you wouldn’t be saying that._

It’s delivered matter-of-fact, dropped an octave lower, and done with a smirk. Before you can blink, your mind thinks and your face flushes. The sudden deep tone and the way the side of his mouth twists into his cheek draws a _very_ _detailed_ picture of the implication of his comment in your imagination. 

And it almost sounds like he might really mean it. Honestly it sounds like he might actually mean something _more_ from it. 

But you remind yourself of this.

This is you and Oikawa. 

You clear your throat and charge down the street, leaving Oikawa behind to follow. You mumble a warbled _Crappykawa, no one wants to know that, you buttface._

He chases after you with a newfound sense of fulfillment fluttering through his insides at the sight of your pink-dusted cheeks. _You shouldn’t steal Iwa-chan's lines_ , he says. You quip back at him, _Shittykawa, I’ve committed the crime already, and I’ll do it again. Shittykawa, Shittykawa, Shittykawa_ _—_

The heat stays in your face—settling into your fingertips, Oikawa’s eyes tend to look back to your mouth at every moment where you can't catch him doing so, and your first conversation about farts and food choices moves on to the complex specifics of copyrights. Oikawa makes you laugh, you make him smile, vice versa, and so on and so forth—the gears that connect you to each other piecing back into place together. 

Childhood— _clink_. Best— _clunk_. Friends—

_Clang_. 

Except now there’s a dent. An ever so small one. Or two. Maybe three. 

Later, the lags will be felt and the creaks will be heard. Eventually, you both will realize that a wrench and oil won’t make it run like it did before. One day, you’ll look at each other and know that it needs to be fixed before something breaks. 

But today is not that day. Today is the day you and Oikawa kissed for the first time, and unknowingly or not, made an unsaid promise to each other to forget about it. 

As you continue your walk home, you are one more step behind him than usual, and Oikawa doesn’t say anything about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: [@aoba-j](https://aoba-j.tumblr.com)


	5. Iwaizumi Hajime - Forehead

“You—you’re doing this on purpose!”

Iwaizumi hums indifferently. His hands that rest intertwined against the small of your back pull you even closer to him. 

“Your toes are just so _‘stepable_ ,’” he sighs almost dreamily, squashing your toes again, swivelling the heel of his foot from side to side, crushing your poor appendages just hard enough for you to feel a heavy descending squeeze.

“And I’m the worst at slow-dancing,” he adds.

You can’t believe him. “You’re literally looking at my feet,” you point out. “You. Are. _Literally._ Looking. At. My. Feet. To. Make. Sure. That. You. Step. On. Them.”

Iwaizumi looks up at you, deadpan and earnest. One hundred percent serious. 

“They’re very nice to look at.”

“And very nice to step on?”

“Hmm. Even _nicer_ to step on.” He steps on them again.

It’s a losing battle. Your toes are defenseless and the attacks are relentless. You give up with a glare and a pledge to play the bigger person. 

“And since I’m nicer than you,” you glower, “as much as I want to _stomp_ on your toes, I’m not going to.”

It is true. “You _are_ nicer than me,” Iwaizumi agrees. As if to back up the statement, he steps on your toes. Again.

You sigh with a pout, moving your hands to his chest to push yourself away and get some distance, shuffling your feet away in an escape. Iwaizumi captures you back into his arms in no time though, his hands grabbing hold of your wrists. 

Your toes are bopped two more times with a little nudge and a small poke. 

You huff with a giggle, retaliating with two tiny yelps as you try to shake his grip and get away still, but all the effort you’re putting in to twist your way out is in vain. Iwaizumi doesn’t break a sweat. 

“Okay, okay,” he snickers, effortlessly tugging you towards him until you’re squished tightly to his chest. “That’s the last of them. I’m done.”

“ _Uomphbehdurpee_ ,” you muffle into the soft cotton of his dress shirt, breathing in the cologne that clings to the fabric. It’s something simple and crisp, and it feels like home, and it’s _Iwaizumi_. 

You sway and he follows. Iwaizumi’s arms slacken and his hands wander, fingers thumbing circles into your waist. 

“What did you say?”

You turn your face so it is no longer smooshed. “Mm—nothing,” you exhale softly, just loud enough for him to hear, still basking in the sweet spice of his scent and the warmth radiating from his embrace.

Iwaizumi leans to the other side, and you match his movement.

Snuggled against his rib, you trace a path with your cheek, navigating your way along the expanse of his chest. You reach your destination when you hear his heart pulsing next to your ear—low and steady, bumping its own beat. 

It clashes against the tune playing in the background, but you’d choose _this_ sound—the sound that stands for the proof of Iwaizumi’s existence—of being _real_ , right by your side, less than a fingertip away, over any song.

“This is nice,” you murmur, closing your eyes. 

You both step to a side.

“Nicer than my feet,” you say as an afterthought.

Another step. Your limbs unravel from his back so that one hand lays atop his shoulder, while the other tangles into his hand. Iwaizumi adjusts, welcoming the interlacement of your fingers with his. 

“Nicer than me stepping on your feet?” he asks, a light tease in his tone. 

And another step.

“Even nicer than me,” you conclude.

You feel a quiet chuckle above you, and a tender, gentle press to your forehead, his lips placed ever so devotedly on your skin—a touch weighing with the utmost want and affection, need and passion. A wordless message expressing peace, promise and protection. 

“No,” Iwaizumi disagrees assuredly. 

“ _You_ ,” he hushes, his cheek now next to yours, “are the nicest.”

-

You both stay like this for three more songs.

  
And after the last note rings—the final lyrics singing through the bluetooth speakers from a corner in Iwaizumi’s living room, you both stay like this for just a moment longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know that moment when you hear the title of the movie in the movie and that's the *roll credits* moment? i had that when writing the forehead kiss ʢᵕᴗᵕʡ
> 
> i also had the moment where i realized that stepable wasn't an actual word (it is now or is it?) and that there's the slightest of differences between 'defenseless' and 'defenceless' and i stared at both the words until my little brain hurt a little
> 
> Tumblr: [@aoba-j](https://aoba-j.tumblr.com)


	6. Matsukawa Issei - Tease [explicit content]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> explicit content: dirty talk, fondling (chest groping, cl*t rubbing, etc), grinding, lots of teasing, matsukawa is giving but not really, reader wears a fancy dress | post victorian/edwardian/1930s era inspired au (but probably more historically inaccurate than accurate)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those who clicked on this series in general wanting some s*xual stuff, here it finally is. i hope it meets your expectations! i'm sorry that most of this first part (which is kiss) actually won't be explicit (i'm kinda doing this as i go, and i knew i wanted to write some explicit content for some characters, but that turned out to be the minority) - BUT with that being said, i do plan on writing a 3rd part of this series which will be completely one hundred percent s*xy s*x, so if that interests you, stay tuned!!!!!

You linger by the wall for just a moment, meeting his glance for the fifth time this evening, before quickly turning the corner.

The empty hallway, secluded from the rest of the party’s hubbub of jazz music and small-talk chatter, echoes with excited clacks of your heels as you head further down. Your steps get faster and louder and the background noise blurs and softens as you make your final left turn at the end of the corridor. 

You stop there. 

Adrenaline races alongside the pounding of your heart. You probably had about thirty—no, twenty seconds. 

With haste, you yank your dress up to retrieve the compact you had hidden away in the homemade pocket of your knickers (Very convenient. You internally praise Yachi for her suggestion), and look in the mirror for any needed touch-ups. Matsukawa probably wouldn’t know the difference anyway, but it’s always nice to have absolute confidence that your mascara wasn’t smudging under your eyes or that your lipstick wasn’t slightly smeared. Little things, you know? 

Luckily, there are none of those cosmetic obstacles to deal with, so you tuck away any stubborn stray hairs that freed themselves from your barrettes, and quickly stuff the compact back in your underclothes. 

The next small moments are spent smoothing out any prominent wrinkles of your dress and readjusting the straps so that they laid perfectly right below your shoulders. You double-check until every piece, detail and ruffle of the fabric is draped flawlessly on your figure.

When you are all set, you lean back, exhaling in an attempt to compose any restless nerves, but perhaps there is no need.

Perhaps the feeling surging through you is _thrill_. 

You don’t wait for long.

Matsukawa rounds the corner, coming to a halt upon the sight of you, a pleasant smile on his face and a dark look in his eyes. You take in his new tailored suit. It must be new—you don’t recall him ever wearing this deep shade of grey before. 

“Don’t you look dashing this evening,” you remark. Matsukawa’s smile broadens, and he approaches you with slow, solid steps.

Even with the separation between you, you are very much aware of his presence. It takes up the space in this unfrequented corridor. The only source of light—a dim, hanging chandelier, flickers in your peripheral.

“Your compliments are much appreciated,” he responds with genuine gratitude. “It contents me that you think so.” 

“But you, my dear,” he sighs, his gaze trailing every inch of you, from the crimped hem of your dress, to the curves shaping your silhouette, and to your face, delicately accented by your makeup. 

“You...are absolutely breathtaking.”

You grin helplessly at his words, and clasp your hands together in giddy delight. “I hope that not all of your breath has been taken by me,” you tease. “I very much do not wish for that.”

“I would not mind at all,” Matsukawa rebuts in earnest. “I could happily drop dead at the sight of you. There are worse causes for death. I would be lucky.”

“Ah, but it would be such a shame if that were to happen. Who would I have to chase after me during balls such as these? _This_ —” you motion a movement in the space between you two “— _chase,_ has been the most fun part of the evening so far.”

Matsukawa tilts his head to the side, a smirk sly on his lips as he thinks back to the past half hour—the coquettish batting of your eyelashes and your fluttering through the different dance halls. Sometimes you’d stop, getting caught in casual conversation, and other times it was he who got held up.

However, you always made sure to peek back at him, and he always made sure to keep you in view. 

Truthfully, you had never left his view the moment you entered through the front door. That _dress_. That _goddamn dress_ you were wearing tonight made sure of that. 

“It brings me much pleasure to know that I have entertained you,” Matsukawa replies.

“Likewise, it brings me much pleasure to know that _you_ are entertaining me,” you respond with an innocent smile. 

You bring a hand up to your face in a suggestive display of thoughtfulness.

“In fact,” you say slowly, “it is almost comparable to the content of your _letters_.”

_Letters_. 

Matsukawa straightens up slightly.

“Almost?” he asks. 

You hear a hardened edge in his voice.

“ _Almost_ ,” you repeat, with provoking intentions.

He glances to the side, as if to double check that there is no one approaching down the hallway before he looks back at you, a subtle shift in his eyes.

“My apologies," he drawls, "for any disappointment I have caused.”

“No apologies needed.”

“Would you be so generous to tell me what _specifically_ entertained you in my writing?”

“What _specifically_ ,” you ponder, a playful air to your tone.

“I can imagine there is much to choose from," he taunts delicately. "Do you not know where to begin?”

Matsukawa takes a step towards you. Now, if either of you moved any closer—the proper, societal codes that outline how you _should_ be conducting yourselves would be breached. The distance between you two now would just barely be deemed appropriate and acceptable.

But perhaps the rules of etiquette and order were tossed out a window long ago, no longer holding any bit of their authority the moment Matsukawa put pen to paper and wrote—

“ _In all truthfulness, I would love nothing more than to strip you down to nothing, to see you disrobed and to finally touch you_ ,” you recite from memory. 

“I will start there as a specific example of one of your _entertaining_ writings.”

You remain unmoving, steadfast and unflinching—stating every word without breaking eye contact. 

Matsukawa, dare he say— _loves_ that about you. Your unapologetic forwardness and your unhindered disposition are only some of the many things that are attractive to him.

But tonight, with you so close to him, so tangible that he could physically feel you if you permitted, he finds that he has an unfulfilled appetite to see if he could shake you.

To see how he could _unravel_ you.

With new purpose and a desire to achieve it, he places his hand next to your shoulder while his forearm slants above your head across the wall. He takes his time with caging you in, gauging your reaction to the developing proximity. Closeness such as this was still highly considered to be taboo territory for people who weren’t formally committed to one another. Treading carefully went without saying. 

Even if you had written back to him every time, and with much enthusiasm.

To his satisfaction, you respond with a hungry sparkle in your eyes, and he boldly moves in close—until his face hovers above yours. 

The warmth of his breath fans against your lips, and you faintly feel the heavy press of his body. “You have good judgement,” he chuckles, “to start with that.”

“If I were to give you some sort of demonstration of that right now,” he says, voice dropping lower, the tip of his nose traces along your cheek, “would _that_ entertain you?”

Heat tingles through you as every word he says lingers just above your lips. His mouth is so close to yours, and his sentiments are tangible on your skin.

But the game of keeping as much closeness as possible and just enough distance to not touch, of resisting to fall into the tempting pull, tells you to not close the gap just yet. 

A little alarm rings in the back of your mind. 

“What specifically do you mean by demonstration?” you question under your breath. 

“As much as you know that I want to, I do not plan on undressing you at this moment,” Matsukawa clarifies.

“But I do desire to touch you.” 

His stare is hazy with the utmost want. “May I?”

You meet his eyes with just as much craving. “Yes.” 

“ _Yes, please._ ”

Matsukawa smirks, backing off ever so slightly, and the softest of sensations—his mouth, ghosts just over your skin, as he languidly makes his way from your jawline to your ear. 

You shiver upon the sudden feeling of a nail dragging down the center of your back, his fingers halting at the top of your fastenings. 

“I’d take my time,” he whispers against your ear, “with unbuttoning your dress.” 

He presses against the clasp, and you jolt up in surprise, and his hand moves down to the clasp below. 

“One,” 

and lower—

“by one,” 

and lower—

“by one.” 

He punctuates with an increasing pressure on each clasp as he descends down your spine, repeating the action until he reaches the last one. 

You feel him press against the last button just a little longer, and you let out a sharp hiss before both his hands migrate along your backside, tracing the floral velvet pattern of your dress. 

“Then—” he muses,

“—I hope you would assist me with getting all of it off of you, for I probably cannot do that on my own.”

You freeze for a moment, and a picture of a flustered Matsukawa trying his best to rid you of all the layers and length of your attire appears in your head. You can't help but burst into gentle giggles at the thought.

“I would—” you let out another brief giggle “—I would gladly do so.”

Matsukawa hums approvingly. His hands trail down both your arms, and you grip the skirt of your dress tighter with your fingers at the ticklish sensation. 

“And then—” you feel the warmth of his breath at the shell of your ear, as his hands circle your wrists.

“I’d pin you to a wall like _this_.” 

In one smooth movement, your hands get detached from your dress, and you are spun around by your waist so that you are facing the wall with both of your wrists restrained above your head.

A warm ache swells between your thighs at the new position. You squirm in his hold and unintentionally push back against him for any sort of touch—something to alleviate the new discomfort throbbing through you. 

Matsukawa doesn’t let you move though, a hand goes to your hip to still you. You whimper and he laughs sympathetically into the crook of your neck. 

“I’d move on to unlacing your corset,” he murmurs on top of the sensitive spot, “and as soon as I take that off, all that'd be left would be your underwear.”

“But I would not remove that just yet,” he sighs, squeezing your hip. You shiver at the stimulation—at Matsukawa's precise and purposeful touch, and at the imagery of him slipping off your clothes with his own hands. You squirm, rubbing your thighs together for as much friction as you can get. His hand shifts upwards, stroking the bone of your ribs, running just below the curve of your left breast.

He palms at the soft flesh and you flinch. “I would touch you here first,” he demonstrates, “like so.”

His thumb easily finds your already hardened nipple, rubbing in circular movements as his fingers massage your chest in teasing squeezes. 

It's almost overwhelming. You tremble at the way he’s toying with you, with your hands still bound above your head, his breath hot against your throat, and the hint of hardness jutting against your back.

To your surprise, the hand holding your wrists releases, and Matsukawa migrates to the other side of your face. You can almost feel his mouth on your jaw. 

“And maybe,” he mumbles, “while one hand would touch you here—” you let you a startled moan as he pinches and twists your nipple “—maybe—” the hand that no longer binds your wrists presses lightly on your core “—the other hand would feel you _here_.” 

He simultaneously shifts his wrist up so that you feel his palm push right up against your clit, as he grabs your other breast with a rough squeeze. 

He presses you even more to the wall, adjusting his hips so that they’re centered to your ass. “And I’d grind against you,” he growls, teeth just grazing the lobe of your ear, “so that you could feel how hard I am.” 

His hips deliberately rock into you at a pace so slow that it’s _almost_ satisfying. His palm moves against your clit, but it’s not enough. His hold is loose on your breast, his thumb barely brushing against your nipple. It’s like he’s testing to see how long he can draw this teasing out for before it transforms into torment. 

“ _God,”_ you groan, grinding back at him as much as he’d let you. “I need _more_.”

“More what?” he hisses, rolling his hips just a bit harder in response. “Of this?” He curls his palm into your cunt, causing only more heat to rush to your core and and slick, cool wetness to develop between your legs.

“You have to tell me what you want." He grinds against you again and you whine. "I know you can do that for me.”

“I—” you whimper, trying to balance the focus of feeling his touch and forming what you want to say. 

“ _F-faster_ ,” is what you manage to articulate. “ _Faster_ ,” you plead, reaching your hands back to his waist to pull him closer. 

“Ahh,” Matsukawa croons, “not yet.”

He grabs hold of your hips, stopping all movement. You sob at the sudden loss of his touch and thrash against him in an attempt to move, tears stinging from the corner of your eyes in frustration. 

Very, very slowly, he rocks his hips back into you, thrusting upwards at a painstakingly delayed pace. You let out a shaky moan, feeling every bit of his length move against you.

Before you can react, you’re pulled up and twisted back around until you’re face to face with him. 

Your face is flushed—tinged with heat, your forehead and temples are dewy with a sheen of sweat, and your lips are parted, panting with need, and Matsukawa feels his pants tighten even more at the delirious, glazed look in your eyes.

“It isn’t that fun if I give you what you want right away,” he exhales, more aroused than ever.

“How _mean_ of you!” you keen.

“And it is quite the sight to see you all riled up like this," Matsukawa snickers. "Besides—”

“I would give you something else to make up for it.”

His fingers find both your hands with unexpected tenderness. He entwines his digits with yours and you feel a soft blow of air on your ear. 

“I would lay you down, your back against the bed,” he whispers, “hold your hands by your head like this—” he pulls them up, pressing them against the surface of the wall “—and then I would make my way down—”

“—to your neck.” The tip of his lips trail below your jawline.

“I would bite along your collarbone,” you twitch, feeling a tiny nip by that very part.

“And I would suck some marks on your chest,” he darts his tongue out, licking up the column of your throat. You writhe as he traces his mouth against any exposed skin he can. 

“And your stomach.” His teeth skim your shoulder.

“And then I would finally reach your underwear.” 

You don’t realize that one of your hands is released as his fingers trace a line from the bone of your hip to your center. 

One of his fingers just barely touches your clit, and you lurch upwards, gasping, your free hand grabbing hold of his wrist in hopes that he’ll give you what you need.

His strokes remain restrained—light and teasing. “I would start off by licking you through the fabric—” he adds a second finger to drag over your slit, and you squirm, imagine that it's his tongue lapping along your core instead of his fingers “—softly—” his thumb comes up to nudge at your clit “—until you were shaking.” 

“Just like how you are now,” he comments smugly.

Your thighs tremble and clench as you push back against his fingers and thumb. Mindless whimpers lodge in your throat, needy for as much as his touch as possible.

His thumb rubs circles into you with increasing speed. “Then when you’d beg enough for me to take it off, I’d drag your underwear down with my teeth.”

Matsukawa buries his face into your neck, his fingers now matching the speed his thumb moves at. “And I’d _finally_ get to taste you,” he exhales deeply. “ _Oh hell,_ I want to taste you.” His fingers quicken. “ And feel how wet you would be on my tongue—how good you would taste in my mouth when I lick into you—the way I would bring you over the edge again and again, even when you tell me it’s too much—I would _wreck_ you.”

The ache between your legs spreads thickly into the gut of your stomach at his words. You furiously move against his hand, shuddering as you stare down, transfixed at the way his fingers pick up their pace, stroking up and down over your dress. 

“ _Issei_ —” you gasp, choking down waves of pleasure. “That feels so good—so, so, _so good_ —”

His pants are heavy, and his breath is hot against your skin. Tension coils tightly at your center, pleasure just beginning to build, or ready to burst—you can’t tell and you don’t care. You just need him to keep touching you like this, to keep holding you— 

Matsukawa groans, enraptured with the way you twist desperately against his hand—at how he's the one taking you apart, making you tremble and cling to his touch every time he kneads his palm into you. You are such a sweet, pretty mess in his hold, and _oh_ , how he wants to do this forever—to keep you curled with him—next to him—pressed _into_ him— _skin to skin_ —

His fingers come to an abrupt halt, his hand stilling against your throbbing center. Your head is foggy, dizzy with sensation and you taste the high at the tip of your tongue teeter back down your throat.

You feel a long and heavy sigh against your skin.

He lets go of your other hand, shaking his head in shy resign.

“I was _literally_ about to tear your dress off.”

“—And, that probably wouldn't be wise,” he stammers out, “or good, so—” he leaves your shoulder to press his forehead to yours.

“I apologize,” he says sincerely. 

A very shaky laughter leaves your lips, still winded, heart racing, and very conscious of his fingers still sticking against your core.

You move a hand up to caress the side of his face. “There’s no—” you pant, still short of breath “—it is very much alright.”

Matsukawa clenches his jaw. “You don’t know just how badly I want to be inside you.” The hand against your core moves down to squeeze your thigh. “ _To fill you up._ ”

You whimper at the thought. You’ve had it many times before.

“When I touch myself to the thought of you,” you confess, “I get so tight, and warm, and wet—”

“ _Goddamn_.”

“And I always thought your fingers would feel so much better than mine.”

“And my cock would feel even better,” he growls, his hands digging into your hips.

“I would enter you so, so slowly,” he rasps, “Fill you— inch by inch. Feel the way you clench when I’m completely inside. Stretch you out every time I thrust back into you again, and you’d get wetter and tighter—”

“ _I want you_ ,” you murmur, and you find yourself back to the beginning, in that space where if you moved just that bit closer, your mouth and his would meet.

“And I—” Matsukawa sighs, his cheek pressing to your palm “—want you.”

The alarm rings again in the back of your mind.

Just as he leans in, you quickly bring your finger to his lips to separate him from you.

Matsukawa blinks in surprise, concern immediately flashing through his eyes—an apology ready on his tongue.

But you apologize first. “—I,” you squeak out.

“It just so happens that my favourite lip colour is of a bolder tone,” you say in dismay, a remorseful twist to your mouth. “And it will stain and smudge quite easily and noticeably.” 

Matsukawa blinks again. Your finger stills against his lip. 

You watch him carefully in anticipation. He processes your explanation with another perplexed blink.

He turns to the side with a soft snort and a shaky exhale, but when he looks back at you, something in him slowly snaps.

He erupts into full-bellied laughter, to the point that he backs away to bend over, clenching his stomach.

Relief sinks into your bones, and you start to chuckle as well.

“Does that humour you this much?”

“Yes,” he shakes his head, beaming up at you. “It does.” He clears his throat with a cough, a cheeky smile on his face.

“It just seemed to be a perfect moment. Perhaps it was _too_ perfect which is why—well...” his hand caresses your cheek, his thumb fondly brushing just at the corner of your lip.

“It _would_ be a shame to ruin this. You do wear it well,” he compliments.

“Perhaps when there is a more... _appropriate_ setting—we can find out if _you_ can also wear it well,” you suggest. Matsukawa’s mouth curves into a wider smile at what you imply.

“Sometime in the near future, I hope?” you ask softly.

He looks at you deeply. “Yes,” he swears.

His thumb strokes your cheek once more, gently with fondness, before pulling back.

“Also darling—”

“Yes?”

Matsukawa rubs the back of his head sheepishly. 

“If you would be so kind to tell me,” he gushes, “the name of the perfume you are wearing? I would love to purchase it for my personal use.”

You tilt your head to the side in interest. “Such as?”

“For when I am particularly lonely late at night and craving you.”

_Oh_.

You swear your face would become aflame if you blushed anymore.

“Is that often?” you ask, curious.

“Being lonely? Not so. Craving you? _Yes,_ " he responds with candor. "Far too often." 

You hide a bashful laugh behind your hand. “Unfortunately, I cannot remember the brand off the top of my head, but I will be sure to send it to you by package.”

“Then I will respond with a letter containing my thanks.”

“And I will wait with much impatience.”

“So,” Matsukawa smirks, “will you allow me to entertain you more for a little longer?” he winks at you. “I believe there are still a few dances remaining.”

He offers his arm for you to hold, and you gladly link yours with his.

-

A few days pass, and it is early morning when Matsukawa receives a boxed delivery affixed with your name. He unpacks it with haste, but is careful to not rip through the wrapping.

The perfume is a small tear-drop shape vial tied in a dainty lavender ribbon. It appears to be well-used, as there is not much liquid in the bottle left. He gingerly twists the cap off and brings the perfume just close enough for him to breathe in the fragrance.

Instantly, he is brought back to having you in his arms, and after a blip of bliss, he sighs in disappointment and longing. That thought is only a memory. You are not actually here. 

He leaves the bottle open on his desk, and rummages through the rest of the contents. You have also included a letter, much to his joy. He tears the envelope, and thoroughly pores through your words. 

You sincerely thank him for his time in making that evening so amusing. You share with him about how you think of it often, and how distracting it is, and how it is entirely his fault. Matsukawa wholeheartedly indulges in that sentiment. He'll write you back that he too, replays that evening in his daydreams, and that it also distracts him.

You then apologize for not sending him a brand new perfume and that the scent should still be strong—how you were not wanting to be wasteful, and you hope that he enjoys it nevertheless. He'll tell you that he does not mind that it is second-hand (honestly, that fact makes it even better), and that he does enjoy it very much. 

You then tell him your plans for this coming week, one of them being spending time with Yachi and Kiyoko for a walk along the river. Matsukawa makes a mental note about how lovely that sounds, and perhaps on a night when you are both free, with no other social engagements or planned events, maybe you both could go to a restaurant for dinner together, and then go for an evening stroll. That would be lovely indeed.

Matsukawa nears the end of the letter, and he does not realize that he is holding his breath when he reads what you last have to say to him. 

You tell him of your most recent purchase: a _lingerie set_ —a sheer piece adorned with ribbon bow-ties, soft lace, cute frills and strapped garters. You tell him how much you love the way it looks on you, how the bodice compliments your shape, and how smooth it feels to the touch. 

You tell him you would love it even more if he could see you in it.

And there is one more thing.

You mention something about a little _bonus_ inside of the box and Matsukawa scours back through the contents, clearing out any decorative wrap—keeping an attentive eye out for anything out of the ordinary. 

He lets out an audible gasp. A photograph.

But not just any photograph—no, not at all. 

There it is, the lingerie set that you have described so perfectly in detail in picture.

And there you are wearing it.

It exceeds anything he could ever imagine. 

There is a lunch meeting within the next half hour with Iwaizumi and a few others that he needs to leave for. He hasn’t pulled his eyes away from the photo yet, and he notices that his room has already started to smell like you.

And now he very much needs a cold shower.

Matsukawa figures it’s alright if he shows up late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cannot believe this became this long. this is the power of matsukawa's h**** c*ck. i also apologize to those who know the era super well. it was really fun to do research and what not but i ended up going the self-indulgent route and wrote out the fantasy of matsukawa talking dirty into my ear and exchanging letters about how much we want to have the intercourse. i'm going to go crawl under a little rock now but if anyone wants to crawl under my rock with me please join me. i welcome you with my open arms.
> 
> Tumblr: [@aoba-j](https://aoba-j.tumblr.com)


	7. Hanamaki Takahiro - Shoulder [suggestive content]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [suggestive content] | light mentions of piss, nothing super intense though

You feel like you could melt into the warmth of his embrace as a sticky, sweaty Hanamaki clings to your back—his arms swinging from behind to encase you, holding you still. 

“Don’t leave me,” he murmurs.

You grab his hand in an attempt to free yourself, but he tightens his grip, constricting around your stomach.

“ _No_ —” you start to laugh, “— _Ohhmygod_ I need to _pee_! Let me go!! _”_

He loosens only slightly while you struggle to wrestle your way out from his clutch. You deliberately kick back with your foot, your heel hitting the hard bone of his shin. Hanamaki doesn’t even flinch.

He hums, unconcerned and nonchalant about your bladder needs. “You can hold it and stay here for just a bit longer,” he suggests smoothly.

You twist and turn to the sides with much determination before it occurs to you that Hanamaki isn’t budging even a little.

It also occurs to you that your boyfriend is unwaveringly stubborn in nature.

You give up with a huff, shifting until your back is turned to him.

“Fine,” you relent, relaxing your limbs and settling back into the sheets. He spoons you, brushing his lips to your shoulder in a soft sigh of content and thanks.

“If you piss on me, it’s okay,” he mumbles, his head hooking overtop your shoulder. “I used to wet the bed when I was little—”

“—and we should probably wash the sheets anyway.”

Your snap around to look at him. “Excuse _you_ —” your finger jabs at his chest “—these aren’t your sheets—it’s _my_ bed.”

“And I said I’d help you wash them.”

“You didn’t say that.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well then I’m saying it now.” He snuggles into you more, squishing you to him. “Whatever, it’s no biggie—let loose if you need to—might as well if we’re gonna do the laundry.”

You squint at him, a realization newly dawning on you. 

“Wait…is that a thing?”

“What?”

“Is that _your_ thing,” you specify. “Like, are you into that?” you ask casually. “Me pissing on you?”

“If you’re cool with it,” Hanamaki answers almost immediately, “I think I could be into it.”

“I mean...I’ve never done anything like that before,” he shrugs. “But it’s probably not that much different from making you squirt? Like the sheets are gonna get more or less wet y’know?”

“Are _you_ into it?” Hanamaki directs the question back at you.

You scrunch up your nose in thought, unsure. “Maybe?”

“I don't know how I feel about seeing _you_ pee though,” you contemplate, giving his soft shaft a small poke.

“You can’t with a hard-on right?”

“Mhm. If I really tried to—maybe? But apparently it’s not comfortable,” Hanamaki ponders in thought.

“This is probably what you’re gonna get.” He swerves his hips, wriggling towards you, his drooping member swinging feebly against your hand.

You giggle, and you don’t know what makes you do it, but you do—gently grabbing a hold of his girth as you shake it from side to side.”

“ _Hello_ ,” you squeak in a pitched up, tiny voice. “ _I’m Hanamaki’s dick and I have no hands so I can’t wave to you, but here I am saying hello._”

Hanamaki snorts. “Are you ventriloquy-puppeteering my cock right now? Is that what this is?”

“ _Even though I’m super small right now_ , _I_ _still have my_ _biG fUckINg personality,_” your tiny voice cries with rage.

“Oh my god.”

“~ _I_ _’m a little peepee, short butnotreallystout~_ ” you sing, making the flesh flop and bop in a little dance. “ _~I’m Takahiro junior, that’s pretty much what I’m about_ —”

His length suddenly twitches in your palm, and you watch in surprise as it swells and stiffens.

“Y-you—” you splutter in disbelief. It's only been two minutes or so since he finished inside of you.

“You’re getting hard? Already??” you pump him up and down sloppily and he groans. “At _this_???”

Hanamaki looks completely unashamed. In fact, his chest puffs with pride as if he had just won a 3rd place cereal box prize.

“You’re just _that_ hot and I guess something about you personifying my penis just really gets me going,” he smirks.

You stop your hand for a moment to let out a laugh and kiss him hard. He responds with a breathy chuckle against your mouth.

“So...round 2?” he sighs, pulling back. 

“ _Let me pee first_ ,” you grin at him, nudging his arms in reference to how he still hasn't let go of you yet. 

“Wanna do it in the shower?” he offers.

“Kinda wanna do it in the bath.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

He rolls you over with him, and in a swift and unexpectedly fluid action, you’re lifted into his arms—your legs wrapped against his waist and his hands beneath your butt. He stands up from the bed and you cling to him like a koala to keep balance.

“What is this?” you ask, delighted but a little confused. 

“I’m gonna watch you pee and then I’ll fuck you silly,” he declares, heading to the bathroom. “Let’s do it.”

(Spoiler alert: Hanamaki makes good on his word. He indeed watches you pee on the toilet, and he indeed fucks you silly in the bathtub.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: [@aoba-j](https://aoba-j.tumblr.com)


	8. Kuroo Tetsurou - An everyday everything

When you and Kuroo kiss for the very first time, something about it doesn’t feel like it’s the first time.

It feels something more like how pen is to paper, or halves that make a whole. Complementaries and completing. 

It feels more like a reunion sort of meeting. 

The first steps are careful and cautious—a finger tucking the hair behind your ear, brushing against your jaw, staying on your cheek—eyes glancing to yours, down to your lips, back up to your eyes, down to your lips, _again_ —a little back and forth of unsure and skittish— _do you want to_ — _do you want this_ —

Do you want _me_?

You shut your eyes, leaning forward, and soon, you feel it—you feel _him_ , sincerely and softly against your mouth.

In the small moment you pull apart after, you swear there are stars sparking within the space now separating you two—a little, bright, beautiful galaxy. 

And you wonder if perhaps things like reincarnation truly do exist in your reality. If you and him ever met in some past life, and now here you are in another universe, born to be together again. 

So when you kiss him for the second time and something inside of you feels like a memory you’ve forgotten, you don’t wonder about it anymore. You sink into the way he sighs against your lips and fall into a faraway familiarity.

Falling for Kuroo after that, comes easily. 

“You’re funny, you know that,” you say to him one day, about two months after you both call it officially dating. 

Kuroo looks at you with a puzzled frown on his face.

“I try really hard.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Probably harder than you think.”

“It doesn’t seem that way.”

“Gotta keep up with you or I’ll fall behind”

You tussle his hair and let out a laugh. 

“Like I’d ever leave you behind,” you say.

And you don’t. 

He doesn’t either. 

Whenever one has to leave the presence of the other—for example, Kuroo crawling over your form at five in the morning for his daily run as you rouse from the depths of a dream you won’t remember—he’ll always plant a soft kiss on your lips before he has to go. 

It’s never a goodbye, but a promise of how you’ll see each other again soon, _until next time,_ it vows—a reassurance for return. 

And return he does, and so do you. After a long day of consuming too much coffee and attending college classes—as you turn the knob to his apartment with the spare key he gave you, you find an apron-wearing Kuroo who spent his time waiting for you with cooking dinner. 

And when you step through the door and he has you in his arms, and you tilt your head up as he leans down, even a month-to-month leased suite that’s just a little too expensive can feel something like _home_. 

It’s everything between—a myriad of moments and a medley of messages. The taste of his goofy grin that he smiles into almost every kiss. The squish of his cheeks, cushioned in your hands. The press of a feeling so passionate it plunges down your throat until your pulse is something akin to the pitter-patter of a storm.

(Some days, some nights, sometimes, it is with teeth and tongue because just his lips are not enough to tell you how much he wants you.)

“What do you think?”

“Hm.” You reach to the side table for your phone before settling back into the couch. Kuroo puts his arm around you again as you type _Aquamarine_ into the google search bar. 

“For a movie released in...2006? It’s aged better than others.” You show him your screen, pausing at the _51% Metacritic_ and _Rotten Tomatoes_ rating. You eye it in surprise. “I really like it honestly.”

“Me too.”

“I watched it once when I was like, ten. I thought Raymond was super hot.”

Kuroo cackles. “The messy flowing beach-boy waves don’t do it for you anymore?”

You give him a look. “If what you’re trying to do right now is to get me to say that _your_ hair is now my kind of thing—then _yes_ , your hair does do it for me now.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Kuroo sighs, grumbling. “You’re supposed to just say _your hair is the best and you’re so much hotter than Raymond_ — _not_ call me out like this.”

Your fingers run through his locks, amused, tangling through his bedhead. You still don’t know how it can stay like that after a full day. “Any parts that stuck out to you?”

Kuroo readily leans into your touch, closing his eyes in content, and you swear you hear him _purr_ as he mulls it over for a few seconds. 

“The part where Hailey says love is the closest thing we have to magic.”

You shake your head in agreement. “It’s a great scene.”

He looks at you. “What do you think about that?”

“About love being the closest thing we have to magic?”

“Yeah,” he nods.

Your neck tilts back as you stare up at the ceiling with a pensive sigh, contemplating whatever logistics and laws love would have if the supernatural were to be another factor. 

You look back at Kuroo—at him looking at you with warmth in his eyes, with your hands in his hair and his arm wrapped around you, and you find your answer.

“I think the closest thing we have to magic,” you hum, “are illusions and distractions.”

“Like how magicians get doves to fly out of their hats and stuff.”

“I mean—” Kuroo wrinkles his nose in thought “—you’re not wrong.”

“And I think...” you word carefully, shoulders tensing with slight hesitance.

“The closest thing that I have to love,” you look away, “is _you_.” 

Your eyes flicker back at him. 

“You know?”

Kuroo’s mouth parts slightly, a little taken aback. 

“Well,” you continue, a small, strained smile stiff with nerves stuck on your face. “I guess it’s closer to say that you _are_ what love is to me,” you mumble, fidgeting with your fingers. 

You stare at your knees, curling your toes and shrinking into the seats on the couch. The arm behind your back, separating you from the cushion, completely stills. A brief, warm lull fills the room.

“Wow,” Kuroo falters, voice filtering through the quiet. His arm is still fixed to your back. 

“I'm literally going to cry right now.”

You turn to him quickly. “What??” 

He groans, shaking his head as he puts his face in his hands to hide, shifting away from you. You grab his wrists in an attempt to take some sort of peek at his expression, a little laugh of disbelief escapes you without thinking. 

“I thought you’d make fun of me or, I don’t know— _pinch_ me or something for how corny that was!”

You catch a glimpse of some blush and flustered furrowed brows. “It _is_ really corny—” Kuroo gives you a soft glare “— _and_ cheesy, but oh hell, I’m really happy—geez that was uh, I-I didn’t expect that.”

He exhales deeply, and you feel his arms slacken. Kuroo stops resisting your hold and you interlace his hands with yours. 

You tilt your head until you’re sure he sees you. 

“I love you.” You look directly at him. “A lot.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, more so to himself than you, shaking his head again. “Yeah—I...I can’t keep up with you.” There’s a choked crack to his tone.

He places his head on your shoulder. his hair tickling your neck, his hands squeezing yours tightly.

“And I love you,” he whispers against your skin.

When you and Kuroo say those three words for the first time, something about it is similar and significant—special and substantial—like a secret kept in safety, only shared between the both of you. 

Something about it feels like forever. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: [@aoba-j](https://aoba-j.tumblr.com)


	9. Kozume Kenma - Neck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: the game among us is referenced throughout this whole thing (@vvip I can't tag you on here really or gift a chapter to you but you are still my muse <3)

“Stop screeching through the mic, Lev.”

Lev ignores Yaku and screeches through the mic again—a literal “ _AhhhHHEHEEEE_ ” sound filled with frustration that pierces through your headset, causing you to wince a little. 

“ _I’m being falsely accused right now!_ ” Lev roars.

“I saw you dashing out of the electrical room you little liar.”

“It!!! Wasn’t!!! Me!!!”

“Why were you there then?”

“I was just there—cause...I-I was there—”

“Okay so Lev doesn’t have any sort of—”

“ _It wasn’t me!!!!!!_ ”

“Hey Kenma, you’ve been pretty quiet,” Kuroo says.

You turn away from your screen, twisting your rolling chair around to look back at him. Kenma glances back at you quickly.

He looks back to his own monitor. “I mean...I don’t usually talk unless I notice anything. You know that.” You hear him state evenly, his voice simultaneously crackling through your own headset.

“So, where were you?” It’s Yaku who asks that question. 

“ _Weapons_ ,” Kenma lies.

“Uh—I don’t think so,” Kuroo pipes up, “I was in that area and didn’t see you dawdling around there.”

Shit. 

“So we’ve got Kenma and Lev,” Nobuyuki laughs.

“ _It’s NOT me—_ ”

“Lev you’re literally screaming right now—I’m going to vote for you just because of that.”

A new notification pops up on both your screen and Kenma’s—the red outlined _I voted_ chat-bubble appearing above **_YAKISHI_**.

“You’re gonna regret that,” Lev groans, “and whack yourself in the face cause you’re wrong.”

“Um...I think it’s Kenma,” you say through your mic.

Kenma whips his head around, keyboard and wires clattering slightly. He stares at you with the utmost confusion.

You give him a knowing nod of reassurance. “We all know Lev can’t lie for the life of him. I feel like he’s telling the truth—” 

“—Kenma on the other hand…” you continue.

“Ha!” Lev barks. “It’s totally you, man.” _I voted_ pops up above **_HaibaLev_**.

“You’re just saying that cause now there’s someone else to vote for other than you,” Yaku snorts.

You move your mouse and with a few clicks, the red chat bubble is now over your avatar. “I’m voting for Kenma,” you announce. “I really don’t think it’s Lev and think about it—Kenma didn’t say anything at all when Kuroo called him out.”

“Yeah,” Kuroo chuckles. “Kenma, you’re still being pretty quiet, hey?”

Kenma throws a skeptical glare your way. “Cause none of you are letting me speak,” he defends weakly.

“Well, someone has to go,” Nobuyuki chimes. _I voted_ pops up over his avatar now as well.

“Guess it’s Kenma this round,” Kuroo adds. 

You can hear a heavy sigh and a few clicks behind you. “Seriously?” Kenma grumbles. 

The voting proceeds. Beeping noises, a spiralling orange space-suited humanoid tumbles through space, and the phrase “ ** _kozume_ ** _was An Impostor."_ appear.

You hear Lev cheer before you put your sound settings on mute, and the game reconfigures itself so that every remaining player is back at the _Cafeteria_. 

Kenma on the other hand, has Taketora and Fukunaga, who were previously voted out before him, blowing up with laughter through his headset.

“Oh my god.”

“What a betrayal.”

“Kenma you were thrown under the bus.”

“Squashed.”

“Man, that was funny.”

Kenma doesn’t reply to their hooting banter, only watching your little avatar disappear through a vent—your little avatar who is the other _Impostor_. Well, the only alive _Impostor_ now.

He knows what he should do now that he’s a ghost. He should probably do something like head on over to the lights to turn them off, or follow you and watch your back—something to help you out. 

Instead though, Kenma feels his motivation drop from being ejected way too early in the game for his liking. 

Now, he has a different kind of sabotage in mind.

You’re currently lurking through the vents below _MedBay_ when you feel a sudden weight on your shoulder, and you find Kenma with his chin lazily propped onto it.

“What—what is this?” you bend your shoulder down in an attempt to shake him off of you. “Why aren’t you playing?”

His arms swing around so that they’re hanging loosely across your figure. “What was _that_?” he asks, a bit of grumpiness to his tone, obviously referring to your previous accusation on mic that resulted in his current status of being a ghost.

You’re out of the vents now and dashing through the hallways past the _Upper Engine_. “So that in the long run, people don’t suspect me—” you wiggle in his hold “—no one will see it coming. We’ve got this in the bag—What are you doing?”

“Don’t feel like playing anymore.”

“ _Are you serious?_ ”

And that’s when you feel it—a sudden, soft sensation pressing to the side of your neck, your surprise melting into a gasp when it switches to a hard suck. You inhale sharply, and a shaky sigh of his name falls from your lips as you feel him move up to your jaw. 

You don’t even realize what’s happening on your screen—your focus being Kenma’s mouth attached to your throat, not his hand on your mouse making your avatar kill Yaku right in front of Lev.

When you do notice, it is too late—an _emergency meeting_ is taking place and Lev is screeching again.

When you look at Kenma, ready to give him hell for his meddling and his complete lack of cooperation, he simply shrugs and kisses your neck again.

You see a hungry glint in his eyes before he not so innocently says, “Let’s do something else?” 

Oh well. 

You win some, you lose some, and despite the _Defeat_ that eventually shows up on both your screens, you feel that in some way, this one is a _Victory_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: [@aoba-j](https://aoba-j.tumblr.com)


	10. Yaku Morisuke - Collarbone [suggestive content]

Summer is hot.

That is the first obvious fact that comes to Yaku’s mind, and perhaps it’s because it's summer that things are just a little hazy for him. In his brain, there’s some steamy fog he’s trying to fight through.

He feels like today is a test of some kind—or tease—or temptation. He’s not sure.

But he’s not really complaining. 

After all, it’s because it’s so hot that you’re wearing this dress with thin straps and a very sweet floral pattern. It’s definitely high up there in his mental top rankings of all the cute-wow (super wow) real life images he’s been able to lay his eyes on—the other top cute-wow (super wow) real life images being other moments with you of course. 

And the dress is short. Very, very, very short.

Again, he’s not really complaining though. Not at all. 

He’s just thinking through his thoughts and trying to process how nice you look in your very short and very sweet dress, and also how nice you look sitting on his bed in your very short and very sweet dress.

Yeah. It’s hot. 

It’s summer. It’s you. It’s the fact that his only method of AC for his room is a cheap, oscillating pedestal fan. 

“Sorry about that,” you say, as you finish sending off a text to your sister about the grocery list. You place your phone on the side table so it’s out of the way, turning back towards Yaku to give him your full attention, the bottom of your dress riding up ever so slightly.

Sometimes, Yaku is a man of self-control filled with careful patience. Other times, there is tension that prickles through his bones, like an alarm that rings to wake up his desires from the dark. 

So, before you can talk about your day or how you’re doing, or who knows what really—Yaku doesn’t know—he wants to know of course, but he figures he can just find out later. 

Right now, he just really wants to kiss you.

So he does. You’re cut off before you can say anything with his mouth against yours. He tastes like need and want, the feeling of his lips on yours eager and a little rough. 

(You are also not really complaining.)

And Yaku doesn’t just want to kiss you—no, he wants to kiss you _everywhere_. The skin that is exposed for him to see sends him signals like blinking neon lights and maybe it’s way too early in the day for them to be turned on—for _him_ to be turned on, but it’s _you_.

So he stops thinking and he starts moving, smirking at the way your breath hitches in your throat when he drags his mouth down to peck softly at your jaw, before he moves down to suck hard at the hollow of your neck.

He presses you into the mattress. His fingers are light and nimble, brushing at the bottom of your dress and inner thigh—a sensation that opposes the teeth biting your collarbone, marking it to bruises. 

His kisses sear your skin, and you can't help but sigh as you feel his mouth nip at the flesh. His tongue soothes over each bite with a quick, gentle lick, and his lips part wetly over the crook of the bone, following the bend outwards to your shoulder and trailing hickeys step by step with every mouthing suck and skim of his teeth. 

“Hey,” you say.

“Mmhm?” he hums into your shoulder.

“Do you want to—” you sit up, shifting from underneath him until you’re certain he has a full view of you.

You spread your legs apart just a touch while your fingers not so subtly roll up your dress.

“—I don’t know,” you shrug casually, “mark me somewhere else, maybe?”

His eyes dart down to your hands and at the fabric bunched up your legs, and Yaku is 99% sure he isn't imagining things.

You’re not wearing any underwear. 

Yeah. Yeah, he wants to. 

It’s hot—very, very, very hot, and Yaku’s pretty positive that at some point soon, maybe he'll help you out with that by taking the rest of your dress off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: [@aoba-j](https://aoba-j.tumblr.com)


	11. Bokuto Koutarou - Cheek

“You’re having fun aren’t you?”

“Yep!” he chirps. “So much fun!”

_Mmphm_ is all you get out of your lips as Bokuto squishes your cheeks between his palms once more—large, warm and surprisingly soft against your skin. You try to yank him off of you, pulling at his wrists, but he refuses to relent, stubbornly clinging on to your face.

“You’re just sooo” —he rubs your face in circular motions—

“mushy.”

You glare at him the best you can in this compromised position, and Bokuto erupts into giggles at the way your eyebrows are popping out, at your bulging eyes and scrunched nose, and at how your mouth can’t really move—like one of those funny face-proportion-altering snapchat filters.

You feel him squeeze your cheeks closer together. “It’s a good thing,” Bokuto adds.

“ _Mushy-mushy_ ,” he sing-songs in his own sort of mushy voice as he squishes your cheeks to his own little rhythm.

You release your grip from his wrists, moving your hands to hold his cheeks, mimicking his actions on yours, an idea popping into your mind.

“Look angry,” you say, as articulate as you can with your face still squashed in his hands.

In an instant, Bokuto’s eyes are a fierce scowl as he wrinkles his nose intensely, even going as far as to give a good _grrr_ sound for effect like a little growly chihuahua.

You chuckle at the way his features twist with your hands squishing his face, and you release him from your hold for a quick moment.

“Sad.”

He immediately switches to a frown, face drooping dramatically, letting out a small, squeaky whine just as you close your hands back on his cheeks again. This time he seems more like a pleading puppy—glossy, melting eyes and everything. You grin in amusement. It’s cute, very cute.

“Happy,” you say lastly, letting go of the press of your palms to his face once more.

Bokuto breaks—no, bursts into a grin, his wide smile stretching into dimples. It is all teeth—precious, priceless pearly-whites worth so much more than the weight of a thousand words, the very picture of his honest heart. 

So you don’t squish his face this time. You simply stare, letting your fingers frame his expression, and deep down in the back of your mind, you hope you can keep on holding on to him, just like this—that you can continue to carry his smile, his sadness, his anger—his _everything_ , right in the protection of the pocket of your palms.

You lean up and press your lips ever so gently to the apple of his left cheek, and then to the right—to seal the deal not only once, but twice—the second one for extra safety. (But also because you adore both of his cheeks, and they both deserved equal attention.)

And when you pull away, only hearing the soft sigh Bokuto breathes out in response, you see it—the slight pink on his face flushing from your touch and the dazzling twinkle in his eyes that might look like the falling stars you make a wish upon.

You know that look to be _love_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: [@aoba-j](https://aoba-j.tumblr.com)


	12. Akaashi Keiji - Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the "kiss" finale is dedicated to the sweetest 🥥. thank you for loving this series so much please know that i love you even more :’)))

The fiddling of his fingers is a habit. Neither bad nor good, but something that settles into the ordinary—into mindlessness—shelved into the unconscious. 

The fidgeting happens somewhere along the path of an unfocused train of thought when Akaashi knows he is going somewhere, but doesn’t exactly know what the name of his destination is.

He used to think that perhaps it was a sign of nerves, nerves he wasn’t ready to admit he had, which was true sometimes—however, most of the time, Akaashi never even realized that his fingers have tangled themselves together again in the first place. 

It is strange how certain touch can become senseless. When actions become habit, you don’t think about them. The seamlessness of it all becomes a part of your system.

Being by your side is something similar to that, he thinks. 

It is routine—habit even, maybe the best kind there is. One that he wants to stay in, one that he never wants to give up.

So when the sun follows its schedule of rising in the morning, and his body follows its natural rhythm of waking up—it is a given that the first sight he sees is your figure sleeping soundly, soft against the sheets, and the quiet rise and fall of your shoulders with your every breath. 

It is a given that the fire flickering in his chest, tries to escape the cages of his ribs, and he doesn’t know if one day he will be the one ablaze and in ashes, or if it will be you that he burns.

But right now he knows it’s warm, very warm. 

He hopes that you can feel it too, as he entwines his fingers with yours, pressing his mouth to your knuckles, mumbling small secrets into your skin. Only for you to hear—only for you to keep. 

Hand in hand, Akaashi knows this:

He doesn’t have to hold onto just himself anymore—

He has _you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you thank you thank you for taking the time to read this whole series which is an exercise/experiment in improving my own writing and being aware of what it is that i want to work on. i hope you have enjoyed what i had to offer so far and if you're curious about what's next... well.... stay tuned for the next part ;) 
> 
> Tumblr: [@aoba-j](https://aoba-j.tumblr.com)


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